Page 8 of The Love Leap (Timeless Love Chronicles #1)

Chapter Seven

Rosewood Cottage is even more bewitching than its pictures let on. It’s a charming stone sanctuary perched at the edge of the sparkling sea. Its windows wink at me in the fading afternoon light as if playfully saying, ‘Well, now. Took you long enough!’

“Hello there, adorable cottage,” I murmur to the old building, a reluctant grin tugging at my lips despite the day’s chaos. The key is tucked under a potted plant and seems just as surprised by my arrival as I am by its existence; it twists easily in the lock with a satisfying click.

Crossing the threshold feels like stepping into a different epoch; history permeates the air, mingling with the briny aroma of the sea. It smells like new beginnings.

I yank off my poncho, ditch my boots at the door, and let my toes sink into the plush welcome mat. My luggage thuds on the floor behind me, and I’m drawn deeper inside by the enticing scent of antique wood and something vaguely floral.

The entranceway opens to a living room that could only be described as magical. A massive stone fireplace claims one wall, its sturdy wooden mantel decorated with dried white Heather, shells, sand dollars, and tiny mementos that hint at years of treasured memories.

Above me, timber beams stretch across the ceiling in a rustic display of architectural allure. I make a quick tour, discovering a washer and dryer behind a closet and a small bathroom with a shower off the living room.

Next up is the kitchen. It’s tinier than what I’m used to, but bursting with personality.

The statement piece in this room is the black woodstove—it’s sleek and modern yet still exudes a vintage charm.

It stands tall next to a hefty wooden table that seems designed for hearty meals shared over laughter and seafaring tales.

The walls are adorned with open shelves showcasing rows of mismatched china plates and teacups, each piece narrating its own silent story. Vintage copper pots dangle from hooks above the kitchen stove, their surfaces glistening under the warm glow of overhead lights.

A quick scan upstairs unveils a cozy alcove filled with bookshelves carved directly into the cottage’s stone walls—an unexpected library brimming with volumes from classic literature to local Scottish folklore.

The sight makes my heart do the cha-cha in my chest. This place knows exactly how to make a writer feel right at home.

I discover the main bathroom tucked away between a pair of bedrooms upstairs. It’s a simple white room, but it’s been transformed into a sanctuary of calm.

Ah, just as I’d hoped! A claw-foot tub reigns supreme in the middle of the space, its gleaming white enamel surface striking against the worn wooden floors.

A round window hangs above it, just big enough to let in a beam of natural light that I imagine pirouettes on the bath water’s surface, making the entire room glimmer like some concealed gem.

The decor is unmistakably Highland. There are tartan throws draped over armchairs, miniature stag heads mounted on walls, and vintage maps showcasing Scotland’s craggy landscape.

The sight is so distinctly Scottish that I’m instantly flooded with images of warriors in kilts and haunting bagpipe tunes.

Every corner and crevice tells a tale about this place’s history and charm. From the weathered wooden floorboards under my feet to the cherished black-and-white family portraits gracing the walls, everything appears touched by some magical spell that has frozen time.

My fingers dance along surfaces, tracing patterns on embroidered cushions, savoring the cool smoothness of ceramic teacups, and appreciating the rough texture of hand-carved wooden furniture.

The allure of Rosewood Cottage is irresistible.

It envelops me in a warmth that feels like the world’s most soothing hug.

I’m head over heels for it. Yes, it’s small, but within its snug walls, I see infinite opportunities for comfort and inspiration.

Sauntering into the primary bedroom suite, I can’t help but notice how the roofline dips, almost as if it’s curtsying in my honor—or perhaps it’s just gearing up to play a prank.

Because, of course, when I get too comfortable lounging on the trunk at the foot of the bed and stand up too quickly, it decides to have a tête-à-tête with my skull.

“Seriously?” I chastise my reflection in the full-length mirror while cautiously probing the fresh goose egg forming on my forehead.

Spinning around, I collapse onto the bed, conveniently forgetting about our sloping adversary overhead.

Our second introduction is significantly less charming than our first one.

I dial Lila’s number, squinting one eye shut to focus on the screen. “Hey,” I greet her when she picks up .

“Hi babe,” Lila’s voice filters through the phone, soft like a warm hug. “Feeling better?”

“Well,” I begin, wincing as my fingers brush against the tender spot on my forehead. “I’ve moved into this charming cottage, but I’ve had a bit of an altercation with a particularly stubborn old ceiling.”

Lila chuckles sympathetically from the other end of the line. “Oh, Mills! Always finding new ways to bump your head! Let me guess...you were wearing those ridiculous platform boots again?”

I glance down at my bare feet, numb from the cold wooden floorboards. Combat boots may be a staple in my wardrobe, but I know they’re not ideal for navigating low ceilings in ancient cottages.

“Absolutely not. I was sporting stylish wedges, but they met their demise when a cow pursued me in the rain,” I confess sheepishly.

“You’re lucky you got away unscathed!” She snorts.

“Well…I’m concerned that I might have suffered a concussion,” I admit, gnawing nervously on my lower lip.

A pause follows before Lila breaks it, her voice tinged with mock seriousness:

“Are you seeing stars? Is there an animated bird chirping above your head? Are you picturing Shitty McLiar standing in traffic in his tightie whities?”

At the thought of Brady, my heart clenches painfully, and I fall silent .

“I swear, Mills, I’m making a voodoo doll of that jerk as we speak!” she vows fiercely. A playful note in her voice tugs a reluctant chuckle from me despite the sting of the whole Brady situation.

“Or perhaps,” she adds. “I’ll expose him on social media until he wishes he was hiding in some desolate cabin in northern Canada.”

“Just let it go. But thanks, Lil,” I manage with a sigh. “I needed this.”

“It’s what friends are for,” she replies. “Now go ice your head and put on something warmer than that flimsy dress! You must be freezing.”

As the evening coolness begins to nip at my skin playfully, I find myself rooting through my damp clothes, desperately searching for something dry.

It’s a fruitless quest; each item is as soaked as the last, except for my socks and trench coat in a bag.

With a sigh, I unpack everything, arranging my shoes meticulously and hanging up the soggy garments to air out.

Then, tucked away in the back of the closet like a shy debutante at her first ball, I spot a clean white nightgown.

The gown is high-necked and adorned with delicate lace, radiating an aura of Victorian innocence that immediately transports me into the pages of a Jane Austen novel. A soft chuckle escapes me as I pull it over my head.

“Move over, Lizzie Bennet, there’s a new heroine in town.”

Before heading to a village store and the kitchen to whip up something to eat, I decide to first wrestle with an equally daunting beast: the dreaded Chapter One.

The pristine white space glaring back at me from my laptop screen feels as formidable as any unexplored heroine, taunting me from its perch on my cozy armchair.

But even as I cradle a steaming cup of Earl Grey, my gaze keeps wandering from the impatient cursor to the raw beauty unfolding beyond Rosewood Cottage’s window.

The rugged coastline whispers tales of hidden treasures beneath its rocky surface. I can almost feel the cool dampness of sand between my toes and hear the satisfying crunch of sea glass underfoot that tomorrow is sure to bring.

And then there’s Loch Ness. Draped in mystery and steeped in folklore. Ancient waters that stoke the embers of my curiosity.

Despite this overload of sensory inspiration, not a single groundbreaking sentence dares to grace my Word document. The cursor flashes at me from the untouched page like a ticking time bomb, waiting for inspiration to ignite it.

In an attempt to distract myself from this creative drought, or perhaps in some primal quest for sparking creativity, I find myself drawn towards the living room fireplace.

I crumple some newspaper for tinder and meticulously stack two logs on top.

But despite several attempts that involve matches and whispered spells learned from countless camping trips in Ontario’s backcountry, nothing takes hold.

No spark ignites.

No flame dances.

“Brilliant.” I mutter a couple of curse words under my breath. “An author who can’t even spark a measly fire.”

So. My bold attempt at survival will end not in a blaze of glory, but with frozen extremities and a bruised ego. As the living room clings to its icy temperament, I shuffle towards the window, hugging myself for warmth.

Gazing at the blue-green waters at Moray Firth, a man perched precariously on an overturned sailboat captures my attention.

His sandy blond hair dances playfully in the wind while his broad shoulders hint at unspoken power—all encased in a skin-tight black wetsuit that hugs his backside like it’s holding on for dear life.

He could easily be mistaken for a magazine cover model for wild Scottish adventures.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself in quite a pickle, Highlander,” I shake my head as I whisper to the cold glass separating us, intrigued by his unfortunate situation.

This wasn’t exactly the solitude I’d envisioned, but then again, today has been anything but predictable. At least this view is easy on the eyes—a minor consolation for my throbbing forehead and wounded pride.

Poor guy, he must be freezing out there on Moray Firth.

I snatch up the key, slip on my trench coat and sneakers, and make a mad dash outside.